Friend: He gave me life advice. And career advice. And how to make friends advice. And love advice. And dating advice.
Me: Oh. He’s clearly aced all of those then. What does he do?
Friend: He’s a tech something in the Mid-West. And plays in two bands.

Me: Of course he does. And he’s their guitarist no?
Friend: How did you know?
Me: He’s a third world hipster. Sigh.

Friend: What?
Me: He’s a third world hipster. You know? Insufferable attitude, condescending, “don’t you know I’m in a band”, “I don’t want to go to the touristy places”, “don’t you know any dive bars”, “women are just really emo” and etc. But peel off the veneer and they’re all traditional Indian douches underneath.

Friend: What. the. fuck. How are you doing this?
Me: You’ve been gone for a while. What happened was, the hipster gene from Brooklyn, mutated like it was on antibiotics, reached India and found its natural environment, the posers, and #hipstergeddon happened.

Friend: There are more of these douches?
Me: Yep, yep. Absolutely. They’re the reason cafes and bars are using mason jars in India now.

Friend: That’s depressing.
Me: Yeah. I have an solution.

Friend: Yes?
Me: Spoon some cake and cream into a mason jar. It’s the only time I’ve found it useful.
Friend: I love you.
Me: Ditto.